One Licensee Sent Me The Address Of Another Hatchery

"Please don't send anything twice," I told Lena. "I need to see where the first payment went."

She paused.

"Are you and Maren having some kind of dispute?"

"I'm asking for my statements. The agreement gives me that right."

"Then I'll send what we have."

Her email arrived before I reached my truck. I sat with the engine off and opened four attachments.

The first was a license for our amber finger coral. The second was an invoice for $86,400. The third was a bank transfer receipt naming Lantern Key Services LLC. The fourth was Maren's email telling Gulf Window to use that account.

The subject line read: New Collection Partner.

I had never heard of Lantern Key.

There was also a delivery sheet. It showed the broodstock had shipped from Tideglass Nursery in Holiday, south of the Anclote River.

At the bottom, in small type, it said: An Operating Site Of Salt Cradle Coral LLC.

I read that line three times.

We owned another hatchery.

At home, Maren was cutting a lemon into thin slices for a pitcher of water.

"What's Tideglass?" I asked.

Her knife stopped.

"A growth project."

"Our company owns it?"

"The company owns lots of things you don't inspect. Software. Customer lists."

"A building full of live coral is different from software."

"This is why I don't drag you into every decision. You make everything sound like a crime."

I had not used that word.

"Who's Lantern Key?"

She put the knife down carefully.

"Owen handles the contract work."

"Is it his company?"

"You should speak to a professional before you embarrass yourself."

For once, we agreed.

Selam Tesfaye had worked on our books when we first opened. She had left after Maren replaced her with a cheaper remote service. I found her office number on an old tax folder and asked for an appointment.

She met me the next afternoon in a small office above a survey firm. She was thirty-eight, Ethiopian American, and wore reading glasses on a blue cord. Every stack on her desk had a square label.

"How bad?" she asked.

"I don't know yet."

"Good. That's the right answer before we count."

I put the assignment, our founding agreement, and Lena's documents on her desk.

Selam read without speaking. Then she turned back to the signature page.

"This is a personal payment right. Your ownership share is a separate thing."

"Maren says it got folded in."

"Paper doesn't fold itself."

I almost laughed. It hurt a little.

She explained her rate, $175 an hour, and offered a first-stage review capped at $1,400. I paid the deposit from the small repair savings account I had kept since before the hatchery.

"I can trace what you give me," she said. "Getting records someone refuses to give you will need a lawyer."

We started with public records. Lantern Key's filing listed Owen Pike as its manager. Its mailing address was a rented mailbox in Clearwater. Selam saved the filing with the date visible.

"A mailbox isn't proof of theft," she said. "It is proof we shouldn't send a tank inspector there."

Then we searched property records in Pasco County.

Salt Cradle Coral LLC had bought the Tideglass property fourteen months earlier for $412,000. The deed named our company, spelled correctly. Maren had signed for it as manager.

"Did your agreement let her buy property?" Selam asked.

"With written approval from both members for anything over $50,000."

"Then we need the approval she relied on. Don't guess what's on it."

She made a list of records to request: both sites' ledgers, licensing contracts, bank statements, member approvals, and every payment to Lantern Key.

"The coral doesn't know it's at a secret address," I said.

"Fortunately, it also doesn't sign checks."

Before I left, she asked whether I still had access to the first hatchery.

"My key works. For now."

"Keep doing your job. Keep a dated record of your hours. Don't take records you aren't allowed to access."

That night I wrote a formal request as a member and as the royalty holder. I asked for electronic copies and offered to inspect originals. I kept the language dull.

Maren read it at the kitchen counter.

"You're taking advice from Selam? She never understood growth."

"She understands columns."

Maren slid the letter back.

"You need to remember how much you stand to lose."

I tucked the brass washer beneath the bottom corner of my copy. The ceiling fan kept lifting the page.

The next morning, Maren emailed a single attachment instead of the requested books.

It was labeled Member Consent: Tideglass Purchase.

Beside my typed name was a signature that looked like mine.